I Might Not Be Your Cup Of Tea But I'll Be Your Tenth Shot Of Tequila
by Destiny919
Summary: "Ah-ha!" She popped back up in her seat holding her prize. "Tijuana's finest." "You have tequila in your backseat?" Stiles asked incredulously. "I can barely get away with Monster!"


When Lydia and Stiles got into her car, neither of them could suppress a sigh of relief. That had been a deeply stressful pack meeting, with discussion of the latest supernatural superfluity. Lydia hoped that she wouldn't be screaming over any new dead bodies again soon, but with her luck lately, she probably hoped for naught.

But there were some things she'd been lucky with lately. Her eyes slid over to the passenger seat where Stiles sat, splayed across the armrests with his head lolling back. She was treated to a not-at-all-disappointing view of his neck.

And then it disappeared as he sat up straighter and rubbed his face with his hands. His large hands, that twiddled with pens and the zipper on his many sweatshirts and had on a few occasions – ones that she absolutely _could_ get out of her head, thank you very much – rested on her waist or another entirely innocent portion of her body. And she definitely had not imagined what they'd feel like on decidedly less innocent portions. She had _not_.

"That was awful," Stiles mumbled into his fingers. "I'm freakin' exhausted. It wasn't that long ago we got rid of the Nogitsune, and then all this crap. . ."

Lydia bit her lip in sympathy. She wasn't feeling too energetic herself, and that meeting had been very intense. "I know what we need," she said decisively.

"What?" Stiles asked, but she was already leaning into the backseat, digging around in a bag – Lydia Martin certainly did not leave things rolling around on the floor like _some_ teenage car owners.

"Ah-ha!" She popped back up in her seat holding her prize. "Tijuana's finest."

"You have tequila in your backseat?" Stiles asked incredulously. "I can barely get away with Monster!"

_That's because your parents – your _father –_ care_, she thought but did not say. And also, well, his dad was the Sheriff. Instead she told him, "My parents trust me. Now do you want some or not?"

Stiles looked from her to the wheel and his brows scrunched together. "Um, I don't think we should drink tequila and drive. We do a lot of crazy crap, but that one actually has, like, warning flyers all over the school."

She couldn't help making a face at him, and was both chagrinned and pleased when that made him chuckle, keeping his eyes on her while he did so. His big, brown, dare she say _soulful_ eyes. Wait, no, dammit, she did _not_ dare say!

"Alright, fine," she conceded. "We'll drive to my house and get drunk in _my_ driveway. My parents are used to drunk friends crashing there, anyway." She made a flippant hand gesture. She didn't mention that her parents weren't used to it so much as never around to witness it, which they wouldn't be tonight either. She turned on the car and pulled out of the driveway, starting towards her home.

"Friends," Stiles muttered. "I never thought Lydia Martin would be labelling me a friend." He may have talked about his ten-year plan, but somehow the idea of them actually being friends somewhere in between the steps of that plan – which had recently sped up quite a bit, their first kiss hadn't been scheduled until at least two years into it – hadn't really crossed his mind.

Lydia took her eyes off the road just for a second to look over at him. His eyes, the ones she _would not_ think of as soulful and beautiful and warm – _would not_ _think of_, were downcast, and his fingers fiddled with the zipper of his sweatshirt like usual. "Well, she does now," she said without really thinking about it. Truth be told, she didn't think "friend" was the proper label for Stiles. That was the label she gave to Scott, to Allison with a "best" coming before it, even to Isaac lately. Stiles was . . . Stiles was something different, something _more_ that she didn't hardly dare to define.

She needed to drink some of that tequila. STAT.

She pulled into her driveway, put the car in park, and immediately started peeling the plastic off the cork. Patron may have been the best tequila, but it was still a bitch to open. She wondered if that was meant as a half-assed, lawyer-mandated way of preventing drunk people from getting drunker, since no already-intoxicated person would be able to open this. The plastic removed, she yanked out the cork, and looked up to find Stiles staring at her. "What?" she asked, her unusual feeling of self-consciousness making the word come out a little harshly.

"I, uh, I'm just a little impressed you know how to open that, it's not exactly a normal bottle," he said, clearing his throat and gesticulating loosely at the bottle in her hands, now open. "I mean, Lydia Martin, secret tequila swiller, it doesn't really cross your mind?"

She snorted, an entirely unladylike sound. But she could be unladylike around Stiles, that was one of the many things she liked about him. Entirely too many things. "You've been to my parties, Stiles, you really shouldn't be surprised. I don't drink much, but somebody has got to open the bottles. It's what a good hostess does." She tossed her strawberry-blonde hair over one shoulder, and took a long swallow of tequila. It burned her tongue and throat like concentrated jalapeno peppers mixed with acid, and it was just what she needed. Licking her lips, she handed the bottle to a gobsmacked-looking Stiles.

He took it gingerly, and then met her eyes, and his jaw visibly set, his Adam's apple moving a little. She swallowed hard. And, lifting the bottle to his lips, so did he. "Whoa!" he spluttered, thankfully _after_ he finished drinking, shaking his head back and forth. "That crap tastes like freakin' battery acid."

"And how would you know what battery acid tastes like?" she asked. Her eyelashes fluttered of their own accord.

It was his turn to snort. "Figure of speech, Lyds."

She couldn't help feeling her heart flip when he used the nickname for her. Lots of people called her that, but Stiles using it was - was - she didn't damn well know what it was. And Lydia Martin didn't. Like. Not. Knowing. Things. She grabbed the bottle back from him and took another drink, though a smaller one than the first. Tequila got you smashed, fast. Though that was a bit what she was going for, to tell the truth.

It was what she got.

.

.

"_WHOA-OH, WE'RE HALFWAY THERE, WHOA-OH! WE'RE LIVING ON A PRAYER!"_

The two of them were quite tipsy now, and Stiles had turned on an 80s radio station. They were both singing along - shouting along - with rather more vim and vigor than either of them would display sober, even Stiles. As in, heads tossing back and forth, actually dancing in their seats.

.

.

"_HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT! DUH DUN, DUH DUN! FIRE AWAY!"_

The next song came on, and they were now quite drunk. So drunk, in fact, that they had both turned towards the other, faces about two inches apart, yelling the lyrics at each other with grins on their faces as they continued to dance along with Pat Benatar's confident crowing.

.

.

"_If you're lost, you can look, and you will find me. Time after time. If you fall, I will catch you, I will be waiting! Time after time."_

They weren't singing anymore. It was kind of hard to do that and make out at the same time.


End file.
